The Art of Agony and Vice Versa
by PrizJefra
Summary: What do you get when you bring a pin-gumball machine, a tormented painter, a kidnapping victim and a whole lot of Shawn's and Gus's nonsense together? A friggin AWESOME story, that's what! Tantalising Spoiler: Shawn's the one who gets kidnapped...again. Read, review, and, most importantly, enjoy!
1. Art is for Girls!

_Flashback…_

"_Shawn, what's this I hear about you refusing to go to one of your classes today?"_

_ Shawn Spencer sighed and glared into his cereal bowl, the cute brown freckles on his suntanned face completing the pouty-effect. Maybe, just maybe, if he got the pout just right his father would forget and maybe even take him out to get ice cream – the double mint chocolate kind with pistachios and super Fudge Drizzle._

'_Shawn?"_

_Fat chance. Shawn sighed again, "Dad, I didn't refuse to go to class, I just peacefully protested against the unfair abuse of having to walk half a mile from one class to another."_

"_By throwing pencils at your teacher? I don't think so, kid." His father took off his officer's cap and sat down next to him, fixing him with a penetrating gaze. "Shawn, why didn't you go to art class?" Shawn sighed._

"_Remember that day when I missed school the day that we were signing up for next year's recreational classes? Well, Mrs. Migilligen had to pick mine for me and she put me in stinkin' art with all of the girls."_

"_So?"_

"_So? Dad, I can't be in a class with all girls! Everybody's going to make fun of me. And besides, art isn't for boys."_

"_Really? Art isn't for boys?" his father paused, licking his teeth with a thoughtful look on his face. Shawn knew to be wary of the thoughtful looks, "Shawn, come here."_

_ The two got up and Shawn followed his father through the hall to the basement. No matter how many times he and Gus had come down here to swap his father's cooler looking tools or launch secret clubs against the disposal of the soda machine in school, Shawn still got the heebie-jeebies every time the cold, musty air hit his face. His father, on the other hand, seemed unfazed. On the contrary he marched through the damp, dark space; brushing aside cobwebs and unsettling dust until, in a matter of seconds, the whole basement was a tornado of cloudy air and scuttling spiders. Shawn coughed._

"_Dad, what are we doing here?"_

"_I want you to come look at this." Mr. Spencer flicked on the dusty yellow light switch and then, with a dramatic flourish, swept a theatre-purple cloth from an enormous object in the corner. Shawn gasped._

"_Dad, is that really – "_

"_Yes. It's your mother. I painted it quite a while back when I had first met your mother. It won an award in six states. Six states, mind you, at the age of eighteen." Shawn wasn't listening to a word that is father was saying. He ran a finger along his mother's face and took in the mysterious and comforting smile that he was once so used to. He turned to his father._

"_You did really paint this?"_

"_That's what I just said, kiddo." His father tried to mask his pride with a note of annoyance but it didn't work. He smiled._

"_So does this mean that I might paint like you one day?"_

"_Maybe. If you practice hard and –" Shawn screamed and ran up the stairs._

"_Sh-Shawn!"_

_ A few seconds later, Mr. Spencer heard the sound of his son running across the street and screaming about how he was going to grow up and be the world's worst painter._


	2. Of Bobble Heads and Men

Sometimes, Gus just wanted to have a normal day.

Take this morning, for instance.

He had driven his blue Echo to Starbucks and treated himself to a super tall Mocha Latte with cinnamon sprinkles on top (he even used his work card but heck, he deserved it) and then, on the way to the office to pick up his work bag, he had received a call from a rather interesting little lady that he had lost contact with a long time ago. He had smiled when he remembered that that her skin, smooth and flawless, had looked a little something like the steaming hot drink in his hand. They had arranged to meet later that that morning and Gus was in soaring high-spirits by the time he reached the painted green office door. He put his hand on the golden handle, pushed…and froze.

"Shawn!"

The whole office was filled with bobble heads. Three Martha Stuart bobble heads lay idle by the answering machine, two Mick Smiley, one Mick Jagger, and fourteen Mickey Mouse stood merrily on the top of the shelf and the rest were spread out in an equally pell-mell fashion. Gus felt that if he were to trip and fall into this catastrophe his head would be promptly bashed in by other bobbing heads. Shawn popped up from under the desk – the picture of innocence with a fat sombrero on his head. "Dude, watch this," he said and before Gus could interfere Shawn shoved himself against the desk (covered, also, in a layer of cheery bobble heads) and immediately the whole room cascaded into a bobble heads bobbing-arama.

"Shawn, what are you doing with my bobble head collection? I thought I told you not to touch it."

"Yes, but you didn't say not to remove them from their boxes and bring them upstairs and set them about in a helter-skelter fashion. You really need to be more specific about things, Gus," Shawn saw the look in Gus's eye and hurriedly continued. "Besides, I'm getting rid of them to make way for my new pin-gum ball machine. See, it's essentially a pinball machine but instead it uses gumballs instead of pinballs so whenever you mess up it blows the gumball into epic proportions and you get splattered with gum-ball chewin' goodness."

"Shawn, how big is this thing?"

"Approximately the size of the whole basement. Why?"

Gus ignored him and set his Mocha Latte down on the table (or rather, next to the grinning head of Flo the Progressive Insurance Girl) and began inspecting the bobble heads "It'd better have grape, Shawn."

"Double grape, single grape, all the grape you can wish for my strangely addicted grape-fiend."

At this point Shawn found it unnecessary to mention that he had used Gus's work card to buy the machine and even more unnecessary to mention that he had gotten a telephone call from a snooty agent in Dubai saying that the transaction would be completed in three years when the machine had _actually_ been invented and that where the hell did he see an advertisement for a pin-gum ball machine in their magazine because, I could assure you, we sell self-cleaning kitty litter and purple dotted blimps, not pin-gum ball machines.

But, hey.

Before Shawn could speculate further into the suddenly sketchiness of the whole deal the doorbell rang and he ran to answer it, the red puffballs hanging from his sombrero hitting his face.

"Ow!"

"Er, hello."

Shawn pulled his hand from his face and looked with annoyance at the figure on their doorstep. He was a young man of twenty, lanky and nervous with a lab coat and handful of green flyers. "I wonder if I can have a minute of your time?"

"No, but you can have sixty seconds."

The man paused. "Sixty seconds is a minute.

"He's right you know." Gus called, picking up a Janet Jackson doll with something keen to adoration. Shawn put a hand to his eyes and sighed. Really?

"Forty seven seconds left." The man smiled nervously and handed Shawn a flyer. It was covered in pictures of happy young children petting puppies and cuddling bunnies against a dark green background. _Because Happiness starts with Friendship _it proclaimed in bright green letters. _Does this man have no taste_, Shawn thought, moving his hand to the other eye so that his already injured eye took the brunt of the ghastly assault on the retinas.

"I work for CAASB –"

"You worked with Sting and the Police on Talking to Casbah?"

"It's Rocking the Casbah, Shawn."

"Okay, really Gus? Please continue." The man gave him a wry, worried smile and at that moment Shawn noticed the blue dots of paint flecked around his neck and hands. Weird.

"Actually, sir, it's the Children's Adoption Agency of Santa Barbara. My job is to ensure the happiness of these young children as they face the most challenging time of their lives." Shawn must've looked confused because the man smiled again and pointed at one of the flyers, "I bring them pets."

"I see. And do you, by any chance, also bring them Easter eggs and dove feathers and presents from Santa?" Gus guffawed and almost dropped his Bono figure.

"No, sir, but for a donation of $150 or more I can by them chickens to lay Easter eggs and live doves to grace their otherwise sad little rooms. I'm Dr. Jamie Chandlers by the way. And you are?"

"Doctorate J. Edgar and that over there is my trusty and rather despicable friend 'Hollerback' Hoover." Gus smiled and nodded; now gently packing away a Kim Kardashian figure. The man flashed his nervous smile again. "Well, if you want to arrange a donation, you can contact me at this number –" he pointed to a name and number on the flyer and once again Spencer noticed something rather odd about the flyer.

"Actually, Mr. Chambers, my friend Hoover and I would like to make a donation right now."

"Really?" the man's face brightened up.

"Yes," Shawn went back into the room and grabbed an armful of bobble heads. Gus screamed in protest as the Kim Kardashian, Bono, and Mick Jagger figures were snatched from his lap, "how do you feel," Shawn said, stumbling his way back to the door, "about providing these children with happy, head bobbing dolls instead of boring old bunnies and hamsters? I mean, come on – they're just gonna die out anyway." He paused "The animals, I mean."

"I don't –"

Yeah, I think so, too. Thanks for stopping by. Love the lab coat, by the way." Shawn dumped the load into the man's trembling arms and then closed the door.

"I…I like your sombrero," the man yelled through the door. Shawn listened to him walk away with a pensive look on his face.

"Shawn…I am going to kill you. Literally, kill you."

"Not now Gus, I have bigger things on my mind. Like how are we going to get rid of the rest of these things out of here, man?"

Before Gus could hiss a retort regarding where he could shove the rest Shawn's phone buzzed. He picked it up and looked at it thoughtfully.

_We might have a case. Meet us down at the 1924 25__th__ avenue, penthouse floor._

"On second thought, Gus, we're going to the beach!"

Sometimes, Gus just wanted to have a normal day.

Take this morning, for instance.

He had driven his blue Echo to Starbucks and treated himself to a super tall Mocha Latte with cinnamon sprinkles on top (he even used his work card but heck, he deserved it) and then, on the way to the office to pick up his work bag, had received a call from a rather interesting little lady that he had lost contact with a long time ago. He had smiled when he remembered that that her skin, smooth and flawless, had looked a little something like the steaming hot drink in his hand. They had arranged to meet later that that morning and Gus was in soaring high-spirits by the time he reached the painted green office door. And then he just had to open it.

1:30 pm

"Spencer, what are you doing here?"

"I got a psychic calling from the higher reaches that told me that there had been some kind of a disturbance here. Not to mention that a…beautiful, beautiful angel in gray had sent telekinetic love-harmonies to my phone saying that you may need my help."

Jules smiled and looked down at her shoes. She was wearing a gray suit today.

"Well, since you're here you might as well make yourself useful. What do your psychic callings tell you about this?"

Unit Chief Karen Vick was pointing with a limp hand at a man lying dead sprawled across his carpet. The front of his head, face-down against the carpet, was bashed and bloody with a shattered glass lying nearby. Spencer squinted around the apartment.

"This guy was rich. Almost obscenely rich. Maybe even filthy rich. Possibly infinitely rich-"

"Well, yeah we were able to deduce that too by the expensive watch, clothes, décor, and the various paintings around the house." Jules gestured to the surrounding walls.

"Not to mention he lives in a penthouse, dumb-ass." Detective Carlton Lassiter tried, without success, to hide his smirk from Shawn.

"Oh, I grabbed something for you, bud." Shawn pulled a winking Mick Jagger bobble head from his pocket and handed it from Lassiter, "I got it because it looked like you."

"What the-"

"Boys, please, focus. Shawn, can you tell us anything?"

Shawn fell into a squat and regarded the body with squinted eyes. There was nothing particular about the man; aggressive-looking, maybe a bit too over-fed, well-dressed, three rings on each hand…except….

Shawn jumped up. "Chief, I think I'm getting something!" He put a hand to his throat and began to squeeze, choking and gagging in such a fashion that both Jules and Vick took a frightened step towards him and then stepped back with embarrassed looks when they realized that he was still actually quite capable of breathing. Lassiter groaned.

"I'm sensing a struggle…big, big struggle…big," Shawn gasped again and shot his hand into the air.

"Well, yeah, we know there was a struggle. There was a blunt force trauma to the head."

"No, no, this is bigger, this," the upraised hand came crashing down on Shawn's neck and he sputtered. "There was choking," he gasped, rolling around on the floor and seemingly looking for something, "and gasping and dying and…." He quickly grabbed at a long, thick rope-like tassel hanging from a curtain and yanked it off, twisting it around his own neck, "and…strangling…and-"

"Gaugin. 1897. Interesting." Everybody turned to stare at Gus who was staring appreciatively at a painting hanging on the wall. He looked at them and frowned. "What? I know my art. This painting would sale for a lot of money."

"Dude, way to steal my thunder,"

"You didn't have any thunder to begin with."

The two did a fingers pointing, eyes widening signal that Jules could never understand. She shook her head. "Shawn, so what you're saying is that this man was strangled?"

"Both by bare hands and a tassel not unlike the one that Shawn is holding." Vick said, lifting the dead man's head up with gloved fingers.

"This must be the tassel that was used here," Lassiter said, picking up a tarnished golden string, "art," he said, bagging it. He poked out his bottom lip and shook his head. "In my opinion, a huge waste of time"

"Lassie, let me tell you something…"

"What?"

"You smell funny."

"I swear to God, Shawn, one day I'm going to-"

"Come look at this."

The four highly disgruntled agents followed the sound of Gus's voice down the hall. They found him in a lavish living room surrounded by matching furniture, ornate windows overlooking the beach and…

Various destroyed painting strewn about the room.

"They're all ripped with the word 'nonsense' written on them."

"And they're horridly ugly." Juliet winced, "Not the usual Michelangelo."

This much was true. Each individual painting was a catastrophe of blue and red and green colors. It was hard to tell whether they were pictures of oceans or naked women.

"Looks like someone didn't like their paintings taken for granted."

[insert theme video here]


	3. Steal from Lassie? I would never!

"Got it,"

Gus looked up from his laptop with an irritated expression. It was a hot day in Santa Barbara, irritatingly hot, and all of the windows in the tiny, cramped office space had been thrown open to let, what Gus was now starting to realize, more irritatingly hot air in. It was only his self-respect and personal dignity that kept him from jumping across the table and snatching what Shawn was waving at him from his hand.

"You got a banana berry smoothie?!"

"Banana acai, to be precise. Good catch, though. I would've gotten you one but they ran all out of acai after making mine and I felt like getting you anything less would be below your dignity." Shawn looked at him while taking a long, noisy sip from his straw. Gus watched as the melting ice from the drink ran down the side of the Styrofoam cup in about the same manner that sweat was running down his face. Screw self-respect and personal dignity in 5…4…3...

"Well Shawn, while you were out buying yourself drinks and doing God knows what else I was sitting here all morning doing actual work. Come look at this."

Shawn closed the door behind him and moved over to his side, still sipping noisily. "Ssssssssssf Dude," he said, closing his eyes in frustration when he looked at the computer screen, "how many times have I ssssssssssssssf told you. Watching sfffffff YouTube sssssssssfffffff videos of sssssssssfffffff Luther Vandross interviews is not sssssssfffff considered actual _sssssssssssfffffff __**sfffffffff**_ _**sffffffffffffffffff **_work-"

"Sip that thing one more time, Shawn. Go ahead. I dare you." The low, poisonous venom in Gus's overly-sweet voice actually did make Shawn stop. "Anyway, I was taking a break. And Luther Vandross can be very inspiring."

"Yeah, he'll teach you how to sing like a chocolate covered cockatoo any day."

Gus chose to ignore this comment. He ran his finger along the mouse pad and opened a new tab. It appeared to be some sort of eloquent blog on different types of art and what people thought of them. Shawn couldn't help but notice that the words _below par_ and _exquisite_ kept popping up. "Check this out. You see this name right here?" Gus pointed to a tiny white print above one of the comments.

"Harris," Shawn read.

"Does that name sound familiar to you?" Shawn shook his head and then paused.

"Wait a minute - that was the name signed on all of the destroyed paintings in the rich guy's house. Harris was the painter."

"Mm-hm. And according to this site, Harris was big time art fanatic. He must've posted over a hundred comments on this site alone advocating for some new kind of _agony art_ that he had come up with."

"Guessing people weren't buying it."

"Literally and figuratively. Not only were people repulsed by the idea, but I went on other art-related websites and found that he had been trying to sell this type of art for over thirty years. Not one buyer. People seemed to just ignore his comments whenever he posted them on a website." Shawn whistled. "Ouch. Poor guy. But that doesn't get us anywhere, Gus. You're goingta have to do better, man."

"I did Shawn, and here's the catch. I typed in Harris's name in Google search and get this, he had his own personal website complete with unused forums, communities, biographies, and prices, but about ten years or so after it was created it was completely changed to a one topic website..."

"Please not another Leave-Britney-Alone advocate."

"Well it could be possible. It's hard to tell. Just an hour after the rich dude was murdered the site was shut down."

"Hmph," Shawn paused, and Gus readied himself for the well-deserved praise, "That still doesn't get us anywhere."

"What-"

"Sssssfffff. Gus, Gus, Gus. Apparently, while you were here creeping on people's MySpace pages, I was outside doing the actual work." Shawn plopped a heavy manila document onto Gus's desk, making him jump. "What is this?"

"That, my acai deprived friend, is twenty-four solid pages of information on Richard Kusnick; the victim."

"Shawn, you compiled all of this?" Gus said in a voice filled with utmost incredulity as he rifled through the papers. Shawn paused.

"I…*mummblegrumblemumble*…"

"You what?"

"I…said…Imight'vestoleitfromLassie."

"Wh…you might have a bowling permit that's sassy?"

"Look, I might have stolen it from Lassie-"

"Shawn!"

"Ssssssssssffffffffff- g-Hey!" Gus thought that he was very justified in smacking the drink across the room. "That is so coming out of your Christmas money." Shawn mumbled. Gus's only response was a well-rehearsed sneer. "Richard Kusnick," Shawn said, "Exceedingly rich, exceedingly obsessed with art which therefore also makes him exceedingly rare. This guy lived, breathed and ate art, Gus. There wasn't one painting in that place that wasn't the representation of all of its class. This guy practically made a living off of buying and critiquing art."

"He have a wife or children?" Shawn _psssssh_ed.

"Psssssssssh, Gus, what do you think?"

"Oh, do you want me to smack your lips off, too?"

"Gus, don't be a sour cactus. It just goes to show than in a span of a little less than two hours I can get more done than you could possibly ever imagine. 1-0 for Shawnie boy!"

"You stole a document from Lassiter! That's not considered work!"

"Come on, let's go visit this Harris-guy's sister. I'm feelin' juiced!" Shawn called, already halfway down the street.

Part Two

Shawn and Gus parked in front of a huge mansion dotted with white flowers and tall, green hedges. A large fountain depicting something that only rich people could ever really appreciate took up the majority of the circular lawn while everything was kept neat and guarded by black spear-tipped fences. Shawn whistled. Squished in Gus's tiny little blue echo, surrounded by wealth and tall things, he felt very out of place.

"We'll probably be dealing with an avaricious female somewhere between 69 and 70 that has way too many dogs and a really bad temper," he said, eyeing the looming mansion withn squinted eyes.

"Ssssssssfffffff. You know that's right."

"Okay and…dude, I'm sorry, but did we really have to go to the smoothie store and lecture them about the importance keeping their acai stocks full?"

"No, especially since you lied about that one little bit."

"Man," the two got out and descended the marble steps. Shawn glanced anxiously at the freaky Lions-Head knocker before scoffing at Gus and knocking twice. They could hear the low, heavy sound reverberating through the – what sounded like empty judging by the echoes – house. There was a silence, and then –

"Can I help you?"

"Hi, I'm Psychic Detective Shaw-…whoa…"

"Whoa," Gus repeated, his eyebrows jumping off of his head.

"_Whoa,_"

"Hel-lo,"

The young woman glanced worriedly between Shawn and Gus with a confused look on her face. She was hot, Texas sun hot. Chocolate brown curls blown back from her heart-shaped face, one honey-tinted, slender hand placed warily on the doorframe, and a body that both petite and robust, she might've actually been hotter than Iliza Sclesinger covered in pudding. _Actually, maybe not_ Shawn thought indecisively, _I'll have to ask Gus later when he's not gawking at her_.

"Dude, you're smiling like a dope."

"Psychic Detective Shawhoa?" she repeated.

"N-yes! And this is my partner _Shaho_. We hope to form a band using those names in the future. Maybe a little alternative, a little rock, eh?" She smiled timidly at him and glanced at Gus, who was now doing something with his eyebrows that was either meant to be flirtatious or he was having a seizure, "we're here to talk to you about to you about your brother, Jonathan Harris."

"Oh! Well, come in," seemingly relieved, she pulled them inside and led them down an ornately decorated corridor. "There are two other detectives here that I was just talking to, if you don't mind. Um, Detective Lassiter? Detective O'Hara? This is Psychic Detective Shawhoa and his partner...I'm sorry, what was your name again?"

"_Whoa_…."

"His partner Whoa…they wanted to talk to me about Jonny." Much to her surprise, instead of smiling and welcoming the two new detectives, Detective Lassiter groaned and put a hand to his temple.

"What part of go, 'die in a not-so-tragic hiker's incident involving a motorized bear and a couple of jack hammers don't you understand'?" he demanded of Shawn.

"Carlton!"

He and Juliet were standing in a small living room (one of many) looking very awkward and out of place amongst the bright pink curtains and china cats. Shawn looked at Gus who shrugged, equally baffled. "None of it," he admitted truthfully. Jules rolled her eyes.

"Well I've got bad news," she said

"What is it?" Gus asked, still looking at the woman and using a voice that, Shawn thought, bordered on sexual. The woman, Tsia Harris, sighed and opened her mouth.

"Johnny-" Shawn suddenly squinted at a paper that Lassie carried in the crook of is arm. It was a list of all of the comments that this Jonathan Harris person had made spanning from ten years ago to the present day. In his head, the older comments including the words _exquisite_ and _below par_ were highlighted while modern day comments including the words _awesome_ and _not so bad_ stood out equally bright.

"- is dead." he said for her, putting a hand to his head, "I am so sorry." Tsia nodded, looking surprised. "Wow, how did you know that?"

"Oh, just a little bit of this –" Shawn tapped his noggin, "and a whole lot of this…" he then gestured to his torso, doing a Michael Jackson move that made everybody in the general vicinity cringe.

"How did he die?"

"Lung cancer, a couple of years ago," Tsia said, "It took the family by surprise. Believe it or not, some family members still don't even know that he's dead!"

"I am very sorry for your loss. If ever you need someone to lean on-"

"Gus, do no give her the fake business card that you carry around in your pocket with your phone number written on the back that you say is there just to show off your good penmanship." Gus snickered in an 'oh, please' manner and hurriedly stuffed the card of which he had been pulling out back in his pocket. Tsia sighed and looked from Lassiter to Juliet. "I don't know what his paintings were doing in that house," she said, "I mean, obviously, when he died there was no one who really wanted to buy or sell them. I mean, I can't really blame them. He came around and gave me a few for my birthday – this thing called _agony art_ that he came up with – but as you can see, I couldn't bear to put them up on my walls," she leaned forward and lowered her voice conspiratorially, "they truly were agonizing."

"Ms. Harris, what happened to the paintings after he died? Who would've had access to them?"

"I…" she paused, "I'm sorry, I don't really know. I love my brother, but-"

"Is that my Richard Kusnick file?!"

Shawn looked up at Lassiter and back down at the manila folder which he had been leafing through with an innocent face, "W-wait - I'm getting something else!" Shawn quickly slapped his hand on Lassie's face before he could look closer, "Not only did Harris die of a terrible, terrible disease but I sense that he was also being impersonated!"

"Are you sure?"

"Jules, have I ever lied to you before?"

"Yes, actually. During the countless cases when I told you to stay put and you promised me that you would."

"She has a point, you know," Gus said

"I can't do this with you right now. I have a feeling you won't be needing these," Shawn quickly snatched the files from Lassie's hands and began to quickly step back, "I may need to pore over them a bit, see if I can glean anymore psychic vibes from their fine…..detail. Meanwhile you all should go bask in the sun, get some lollipops, enjoy yourselves, maybe, while Gus and I figure this out."

"Shawn!"

Shawn and Gus quickly ran out of the mansion before Jules and Lassiter could come after them, but on the way out Shawn noticed something rather odd in the corridor. A picture, framed in gold, depicting a happy family: mother, daughter, son, father, but it had been folded along the side and you could just barely make out the stringy blond hair of whoever it was whose face had been folded over.

"How did you figure out that somebody was impersonating Harris?" Gus asked as the two got in the car and locked the doors. Shawn glanced at the big house and quickly opened the Jonathan Harris files. "Dude, check this out," he whispered, rifling to the pages that he had been looking at earlier, "You see this here? August 15, the day that Swope was alive, he says, 'Anybody looking for exquisite, emotional art to set a room blazing with agonizing fire?'"

"Yeah…that painting didn't sell too well."

"Now look at this: November 30th, he comments, "I have some really cool art to sell that I think you'd love.' Does that seem fishy to you?"

"No – wait a minute…Maverick's supposed to be dead around this time. You're right, Shawn, someone is trying to impersonate him!"

"And they're doing it badly. 'I have some really cool art to sell?' I mean, psh, come on."

"Out of all the dead artists to impersonate, who would try to steal and sell this guy's art? It's the worst of the worst!"

Shawn suddenly remembered something else odd, something that he had noticed about a rather peculiar salesman.

"You in the mood to donate some money to children in need of furry animals?"

Helpful Chart

Jonathan Harris: The man who painted the pictures that were found in the dead man's house ('member the ones that were ripped and had the words 'nonsense' written on them?)

Richard Kusnick: Dead guy who was strangled.

Tsia Harris: Johnny's sister.


	4. Fullgrownmannapped

"Ah, Mr. Chandlers, I thought we might find you skulking about here."

"Oh, hi guys! H-how'd you find me?"

"Gus did something with a thing that did something with some other thing."

"T.C.L.G.F.P. Totally and Completely Legal Gadgets for Finding–"

"Stop it, Gus."

"Wow. I…it's really that easy to find me?"

The young solicitor hooked his hands in his lab coat pockets and hunched his shoulders uncomfortably, his blond hair sweeping lightly over his forehead in the Santa Barbara breeze. To Shawn he looked a bit like a Golden Oreo Cakester, a suspiciously suspicious Golden Oreo Cakester. He laughed and clapped his hands together.

"Oh, I'm sorry, where are my manners? My friend 'Hello' Hoover and I just wanted to see how the whole fuzzy-animals-for-kids thing was going."

"Hello Hoover?" the young man gave a forced laugh, "A minute ago you called him Gus. I thought his name was 'Hollaback' Hoover."

"I thought your name was Mr. Chambers." The man looked at Gus with a fresh kind of fear, "If you're going to have multiple aliases then you might as well focus on getting them right."

At that moment, Shawn and Gus found it very appropriate to bump fists.

The young man, meanwhile, was looking quite panicked. His blue eyes searched between Shawn and Gus's face with fevered energy. "A-a-all right," he stuttered, "My name isn't Chandlers or Chambers, for that matter. It's…Keri…Hilson."

"Keri Hilson's a singer," said Gus, appalled.

Suddenly, he made a break for it. He shoved past Shawn and was halfway down the dock before either man could run after him. Shawn was all for chasing him all the way to Czechoslovakia if he had to, but before he could start running Gus stopped him with a firm hand on the chest.

"Wait, Shawn, wait a minute. Why do you want to chase that man?"

"What do you mean why do I want to chase him, let's go! He's getting away!" He tried to push past him but Gus pushed him back with more force than before. Shawn looked at him in surprise, "What are you, a black gladiator? When'd you get those 'ceps?"

"Shawn, why do you want to chase after this guy? I mean, I know he's a suspicious, twitchy-eyed, alias-mixing, lab coat wearing blond dude but so what? We can't go running after a man based off of that!"

Shawn shook his head in frustration, "I just have a feeling, Gus! The woolen blanket of murder and mystery is slowly unraveling and I, Shawn Spencer, am the one at the end tugging on the fuzzy little multicolored strings," Shawn paused, "that was good. That was really good. You mind if I do that again?"

"Shawn…"

"Look, Gus. That man has something to do with it. I just…feel it, okay?" he sighed in exasperation and looked towards the gasping bay "Now I don't know who he is or what he's done, but I think that I'm finally starting to understand what's happened here. Richard Kusnick's death might not have been caused by some bloodthirsty murderer roaming the streets of Santa Barbara strangling people with tassels. That sounds too much like John Lebar from that one British TV show. Come on, help me out here, you know the one," Gus gave him The Look, "just…just trust me here. Okay? Come on, buddy."

Gus paused. Of all the times to give his friend the usual no- because,-you-see-Shawn,-unlike-you-I-actually-have-a-real-job-and-don't-exactly-have-_time_-to-go-chasing-confused-little-blond-kids-around-town-when-I-should-be-getting-on-with-my-routes-or,-better-yet,-getting-deep-tissue-massages-for-the-muscle-aches-and-cramps-that-_you_-caused, Gus could see that this was not the time. He placed his hands on his hips and sighed, resolved. "Fine. I believe you. But we don't even know where he's headed."

"I think I do," Shawn said distractedly as he opened the passenger door to Gus's car. But before he got in a rather ingenious idea popped into his abundantly sexy-hair-covered head. "Dude," he said excitedly, making Gus look up at him in suspicion, "say 'the woolen blanket of murder and mystery is slowly unraveling and I, Shawn Spencer, am the one at the end tugging on the fuzzy little multicolored strings' in a Jamaican accent."

"Shawn, no," Gus tried to get in the car.

"Aw, come on, please? Gus, I'm begging you."

"I said no, Shawn!"

"Come on, do it. You know you want to."

"I am not going to do it!"

"_Doitdoitdoitdoitdoitdoi_-"

"_Da woo-len blang-ket uv mwoo-urda and mis-dir-ee ee-is sloe-lee un-rav-eh-lehn and I, Shawn Spen-sar, am da wun at da inds tuh-ging on da fuzzy lit-tole strings, mon_."

Needless to say, Shawn felt very in the groove.

Approximately, I dunno, an hour or so later?

About an hour later or so later found the boys parked once again in the driveway of Ms. Harris's enormous home, still holding their empty donut bags. "Oh Anna of Anna's bakery," Shawn said reminiscently, looking up at the huge house, "we would be lost without you and your sweet little charm…and your donuts."

"You know that's right."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Shawn said before Gus could get out of the car, "Give your keys,"

"Why?!"

"Because you said that I'd get to drive when we headed back for winning that date with Anna's great-great-great granddaughter in under six minutes."

Gus _hmph_ed and handed him the keys. The two got out of the car and climbed the dusty staircase, but on the way up Shawn noticed something funny about the pattern in the dirt leading up to a particularly large ledge on their right. "Tire tracks," he said thoughtfully. "Dude, either she _jus_t got in or somebody else is here."

"She probably just got in,"

"But why would she park her car behind a hedge when she has a three-car garage?" Gus looked at him and shrugged, at a loss. There seemed to be a sudden chill in the muggy summer air that hinted of a deeper mystery mixed with subtle lies and deception. He knocked on the door.

"Oh, you guys," Tsia's smiling face peeked out at them through a crack between the double doorway, "what do you want?"

"Do you mind unlocking that double-lock? My partner here just wants to ask you a few more questions," Gus said amiably.

"Oh, um...okay!"

"Is it just me or does she seem way too overly-happy," Shawn whispered as Tsia closed the door and undid the latch. "It's a defense mechanism some people use," Gus whispered back, "she's obviously doing something she's not supposed to be doing, and when we-"

"Gus, I know that! By saying, 'Is it just me or does she seem way too overly-happy,' I was implying -"

The door was thrown open and Tsia looked at them with darting (albeit quite pretty) eyes. She wrung her hands nervously. "Look, I already answered all of your questions. My brother died years ago. Someone got ahold of his paintings and tried to sell them for quick cash. End of story, right?"

"Um, Ms. Harris, these are just a few follow up questions that we'd like to ask before we officially close the case. May we come in? Maybe sit upon your pink velvet couches, fiddle around with your fifty inch flat screen TVs, maybe even wear your sixty thousand dollar apiece golden monocles?"

"Shawn!"

"Oh, Gus would like to wear the little black one. You know, like the one that Mr. Peanut wears."

"…thank you."

If Tsia Harris was freaked out before that was nothing compared to what she was feeling now. She wrung her hands harder in front of her flower-print dress, looking for the world like she might say no, but with a sigh and flutter of the eyelids she nodded and led them inside.

"Now, I really only have one question for you, if that's okay," said Shawn as he balanced a cup of raspberry tea on its plate. He blinked smartly at her through his monocle, "Do you mind telling me about your family?"

"Well," she said, picking fretfully at a vase of flowers. Everything about her screamed of agitation, so different from the Tsia that they had met yesterday. "My father was a lawyer and my mother was a banker for a famous company that collapsed sometime after her death. I dabbled in medical school. Right now I'm applying for work as a trauma surgeon in a hospital. I inherited this house from them when they died. I mean, I could never afford to buy a house like this on my own. Not as a student or on a surgeon's payroll. But I didn't just inherit the house. I inherited everything in it. But I'm learning to manage."

"What about…your siblings,"

"Oh, Jimmy use to work for the government. He was a trainee, if you will, an apprentice, but the big boys at the top had plans for him. He had the potential to be an ambassador someday, so he was often granted permission to travel with government officials on their business trips around the world. Point is, he was never really at home and my parents thought it would've been useless to give the house to him if he wouldn't have been here to appreciate it. It wasn't until later that he started this whole _agony art_ thing. One day he just announced that he would travel the world promoting art instead of politics. I suspect around that time he found out about the cancer but just never told anybody about it."

Shawn smiled, "I see…mostly out of one eye, but I still see. Excuse me while I confer with my partner," Shawn and Gus held their teacups in front of their faces and leaned towards each other conspiratorially. "Dude, did you see how she didn't even react when I said the word _siblings_, plural," he whispered.

"Yeah, so? She might not have heard that part. The woman has other things on her mind."

"What? Like you melting your chocolate goodness all over her raspberry china?"

"Get to the point, Shawn!"

"Gus, the picture. On the mantel in the corridor there's a picture of her, the father, the mother, the dad, and her brother. But there's somebody else in the picture, except their side has been folded over so you can't see anything of them except a bit of their hair. I'll bet you anything that's the third sibling. And I know who he is," Shawn sat up and put a hand to his head.

"Gus…Gus, I'm getting something," he got up and staggered about the room, running his hands along desks and knocking stuff down. Tsia gasped and stood up. "I'm…I'm…I'm seeing something….yes, yes I can see…Holy moly! It's a man! Magic monocle, don't fail me now! "

"A man!" Tsia exclaimed, frightened.

"Yes, he's…he's calling out to me. Oh…he's saying…Brady Bunch…Mary Kate and Ashley…Kim…Cuckoo…Kourtney Kardashian!"

"Uh…they're all siblings!?"

"Yes! No! Yes! Oh, God, the spirits of the psychic world are so contradicting…there's…there's…" Shawn opened his eyes and looked at her, "there's another sibling that you haven't told us about."

"How did you know that?"

"He contacted me, psychically, and asked me _not_ to forget about him in a deep, rhythmic Jim Kerr kind of way…"

Tsia stumbled backwards, shocked, the teacup rattling dangerously in her hand. Gus stood up and gently took it from her. "Yes, yes, that's true," she ran into the corridor and returned unfolding a piece of paper, "this is him. Mickey Harris. B-b-but I haven't seen him in years!"

"Shawn," Gus recognized the smiling blond face in the picture immediately. Without a doubt, it was the traveling salesman, "it's…" But Shawn wasn't listening. Unbeknownst to the other two, Shawn had spotted a distant movement in the yard. At first he thought it was just a strange animal (you know, like the ones that rich people buy to roam around uselessly in their yards,) yet whatever it was had dilated eyes like a frightened human that once met his before the creature hurriedly turned and ducked behind a bush.

"I…I gotta go check something," Shawn said distractedly. He put his monocle down on a side desk and exited the house, leaving Gus alone with the shaking girl.

"Ms. Harris," he said.

"Call me Tsia."

"Tsia, where is this man?"

"I told you, I don't know. Look, I know he's my brother and all and I'm supposed to know where he is at all times, but he disappeared a few years ago and never came back. I mean, I assumed he was dead."

"That's not possible. We saw this man today."

"What?! That's –"

"GUS! GUS! HEEEEELP!" Gus needed no prompting. He was out of the house faster than a speeding bullet, following the sound of Shawn's high-pitched cry. "WHERE ARE YOU, BUDDY?!"

"I'M…mmm-mmm-m!...OVER HE…I…mmm-mmm-m-m!…mmmm! GUUUUUUUSS! Mmmmmph-mmmmm!" Shawn's cries became muffled, as if something or someone was pressing something against his mouth. Gus crashed through the bush nearest the sound but couldn't see Shawn anywhere. Panting, panicking, he crashed through the next one and the next one as Shawn's muffled cries faded into a worrisome silence.

"Damn this maze," Gus cursed as he rounded a corner of yet another hedge. "SHAWN WHERE ARE YOU?!" And then, Gus heard a sound that made him freeze.

The gunning of a car engine, so unmistakable in the empty silence of the yard.

"SHAWN!"

Gus doubled back to the courtyard just in time to see a blue Toyota speed off and round a corner in the opposite direction. "Don't just stand there! Call the police!" Gus called to an awe-struck Tsia. She jumped and ran inside the house. He could hear her yelling franticly into the phone as he searched his pocket for his keys.

"Yes? Hello?! A man has been kidnapped…right from in front of my house! Um, 221 Avery lane….please hurry….yes, okay, it was a red Toyota-"

"Damn it," Gus cursed, still searching his pockets. _Whoa, whoa, whoa…Let me see your key…Because you said I'd get to drive when we headed back for winning that date with Anna's great-great-great granddaughter in under six minutes!_ Shawn had his keys. He looked up and stared at the road where the grimy Toyota had sped off with his friend. "Don't worry, buddy. We're coming after you."


	5. Paint, Manes, and Mysterious Gunshots

Gus: You promised the audience that someone would get shot!

Me (typing furiously and sweating profusely): Well, promises are meant to be broken, Gus.

Gus: You sound like Shawn.

Me: And you sound disappointed. Most people would be glad if they found out that a person _wasn't_ about to get shot….except Lassiter.

Gus: You know that's right.

Shawn: Dude, Gus, weird author-lady, I just scored three tickets to the Royal Rumble this Saturday night.

Gus: Whaaaaaaaat?

Shawn: You guys coming.

Me: Uh, no. I have to make this chapter extra-long to compensate for nobody getting shot at the end.

Gus (to himself): Like you promised

Shawn: Suit yourself. Come on, Gus (leaves)

Me: Hey Gus! You know Mickey would've been the one getting shot.

Gus: I know! (follows Shawn)

Me: …enjoy the story.

oOoOoOo

"Ow…god..." Shawn Spencer came to with a massive, pounding headache and a dull aching in every one of his well-defined muscles. He had only felt like this twice before: once when he had had a competition with Mcnab to see who could drink the most Super Freeze Slushies in one minute (_technically_ he had won – the sip that would've made him the winner was already on its way down his throat when he passed out) and once when he had been shot and kidnapped by criminals using ice cream trucks as their front.

Wait…kidnapped. He had been kidnapped. _Again._

"Man…"

It all came rushing back to him faster than he would have liked. The Oreo Cakester, the murdered art enthusiast, watching the daylight fade into darkness as a cloth – drenched in chloroform, judging by the rancid stinging around his mouth and nostrils – was pressed over his face. He opened his eyes and immediately gasped in pain as he was assaulted by spots of blinding white light placed around the room…

Or warehouse…he squinted around and found that he was, indeed, in some sort of abandoned storage space. Judging by the state of its rotting wooden walls and moldy ceiling this warehouse had been abandoned a long time ago yet was still in use by somebody, seeing as it was filled to the brim with overhanging light fixtures, newly bought crates and…_agony art_. Hesitantly, as to not cause any more injury to his already half-dead body, he tried to sit up but found that his ankles and wrist had been bound by a thick cord. The best he could manage was a half-kneel and it was only when he was in this position did he hear the voice.

"Glad to see you're awake…I thought I had killed you, dragging you around like that."

"A bit remorseful for a kidnapper, don't you think?" The young Oreo Cakester stepped out of the shadows and into a dot of white light. He would have been an ominous sight if it weren't for the nervous look upon his pale face. "Dr. Jamie Chandlers, or should I say _Mickey Harris_,"

"How'd you know my real name? My sister didn't tell you about me, did she?"

"No, my…psychic…gleanings…" Shawn cringed as a new wave of pain hit. God, it hurt to talk, "You wanna untie me a little, buddy?"

"Oh, okay-I mean-no! No! I can't untie you! You're my prisoner and…I have to _kill _you!"

"Mickey, come on. How are you going to kill me? Huh? You're like Charlie Creed-Miles from the Fifth Element. You don't even have a gun, man!"

"Yeah? Well," the young Harris clenched and unclenched his hands (un)threateningly, "I'll strangle you! I've done it before," but even Shawn could see that the mere idea of this threat frightened him beyond measure. Mickey paused and thought, "and, by the way, if I'm Charlie Creed-Miles then you're Bruce Willis and I hardly think that's fair. How about I'm the Mugger and you're Gary Oldman?"

"What? Fine, but I still get Bruce Willis's car. Ooh! And I get your gun because you don't have a gun so technically you shouldn't have a gun in the movie."

"But you already have those weird egg-like things that open and close!"

"Okay, but yours looked cooler. It's all…spiky 'n stuff," they both stopped when they remembered that this was a hostage situation and not a heated debate between two manic-depressive teens at Comic-Con. Shawn shook his head. "Look, I know you didn't kill Richard Kusnick on purpose. It was an accident and we all have accidents from time to time….except most people's accidents don't involve killing other people," Shawn added under his breath. Mickey tried to feign a look of bad-boy nonchalance, but he couldn't help looking a little interested, if not surprised. "Oh yeah? And how do you know that?"

"It's because I'm a psychic. My name is Shawn Spencer and I work for the SBPD and right now the little spirits are telling me that you were only defending the dignity of someone that you loved." Mickey gasped and turned paper-white. Suddenly weak, he stumbled back until his back was against one of the large crates. "Y-you can't possibly know that! You can't! It was my personal mission, my vendetta. _**How did you get inside of my head?!**_"

"I didn't-"

"No! No. This is too far-fetched. If you really are psychic, then prove it! Tell me what happened, starting from the beginning and _don't _leave out a single detail and then maybe, maybe I'll let you live." Shawn looked up at him in surprise. Sure, he could glean little pieces of the puzzle here and there, but to recreate the whole event with little to nothing to go on…He couldn't do it. He simply could not do it.

"Come on, psychic…."

But he had to try.

He closed his eyes and furrowed his brow, reviewing everything that he had seen and heard from the start of this whole adventure. Suddenly Tsia's face, so sweet and gentle, swam before his eyes.

"_My father was a lawyer and my mother was a banker for a famous company that collapsed sometime after her death. I dabbled in medical school…._ _Jimmy use to work for the government. He was a trainee, if you will, an apprentice, but the big boys at the top had plans for him."_

"You come from a rich family. Your father was a strict lawyer, your mother was the owner of a huge banking business and both of your siblings were working their way up to something big. A truly successful family, but wait…"

"_Gus, the picture. On the mantel in the corridor there's a picture of her, the father, the mother, the dad, and her brother. But there's somebody else in the picture, except their side has been folded over so you can't see anything of them except a bit of their hair. I'll bet you anything that's the third sibling." _Why would you fold over a picture of someone that you love? Why? _Because they didn't live up to such grand expectations_, Shawn thought, _that's why there were no other pictures of Mickey in the house, that's why the house was ceded to the youngest child instead of the next in line_. _That's why Tsia refused to speak of him_. Shawn gasped in surprise at his own genius and looked up at Mickey. "But you were the black sheep of the family. Your father, your mother, your sister…they were all ashamed of you and so they disinherited you and sent you away. So you wiled your life away, cut off from your very own family, probably jumping from one hopeless job to another…" And there was Tsia's face again.

"_How did he die?"_

"_Lung cancer, a couple of years ago…It took the family by surprise. Believe it or not, some family members still don't even know!"_

"And then you found out about Jonathan's death and it took you by surprise. For years you hadn't seen or even thought of your poor, rich family when – boom –you suddenly find out that your very own brother is dead. So you come back to Santa Barbara to pay your respects when lo and behold you find out about this thing he had going on: agony art." Shawn thought back to the moment when he and Gus had sat in Gus's blue car, pouring over some of the dead man's blogs.

"_Dude, check this out…you see this here? August 15, the day that Jonathan Harris was alive, he says, 'Anybody looking for exquisite, emotional art to set a room blazing with agonizing fire?'"_

"_Yeah…that painting didn't sell too well."_

"_Now look at this: November 30th, he comments, "I have some really cool art to sell that I think you'd love.' Does that seem fishy to you?"_

"_No – wait a minute…Harris is supposed to be dead around this time. You're right, Shawn, someone is trying to impersonate him!"_

"_And they're doing it badly. 'I have some really cool art to sell?' I mean, psh, come on."_

"_Out of all the dead artists to impersonate, who would try to steal and sell this guy's art? It's the worst of the worst!"_

"So you decided to continue his work. It was the least that you could do. You hacked into his accounts and impersonated him in order to keep advocating for his work. But I sense…nobody would buy them. No, in fact, people just ignored your comments whenever you posted them. But luckily for you, a man who you thought to be an open-minded enthusiast agreed to take a closer look at your brother's art. So you take it to him and upon inspection he finds it to be _below par_. But it doesn't stop there. No, no, he destroys them one by one right in front of your very eyes. As you watch he takes your brother's most precious paintings and tears them to shreds, but not before writing the word 'nonsense' on every single one. You can't help it. You're so blinded by emotion that you grab the nearest thing and bash it over his head, hoping to teach him a good lesson, but you hit just a bit too hard and he falls. There's blood everywhere, the neighbors have been awakened by your arguing and you know that as soon as Richard Kusnick regains consciousness he'll identify you as the killer. So you had to clean up any loose ends," Shawn paused and put his hand to his neck, making mock-gasping and choking noise, "so you strangled him with the nearest thing that you could find. You immediately become horrified by what you'd done, so you flee in fear, leaving behind the one piece of evidence that could incriminate you. But that doesn't matter, you had to get out of the country soon before the cops started looking, but all of your years of jumping from job to job left you penniless. So what do you do? You print a few flyers, throw on a lab coat, make it look like you're part of a business donating animals to children, hoping that people would donate money that you would use later on to get yourself out of the country. But the plan doesn't work, so you turn to the one family member left alive who you thought you could get to give you the money. But that's when Gus and I arrived and you barely had time to explain to Ms. Tsia Harris the situation that you were in because we were already knocking at the door. I think we both know what happened after that. You hid behind a hedge and thought you would be able to wait us out and then return to the house later on, but I caught you," Shawn, quite breathless, gave a little laugh, "that hair is literally brighter than the sun."

"Y-y-you knew immediately, didn't you? H...h-h-how'd you know….I wasn't a...donation collector?"

"Man, you wore a lab coat," Shawn gave another small, humorless laugh, "what donation collector do you know wears a lab coat outside?"

Shawn was about to mention the ghastly flyers not being much of a help either, but he stopped when he saw the look on Mickey's face. If the man had looked nervous and distraught before it was nothing compared to the look of utter dejection and remorse that was displayed on his face right now. Hands limp, face a pale, vacant grey the unfortunate young man sat there in the most pitiable state of human existence that Shawn had ever seen. He leaned over to the side to get a closer look.

"You okay, buddy? You look as if you've seen a ghost."

"I…I didn't mean to," Mickey looked up at Shawn with pleading eyes, "I didn't mean to kill him. I would never do that to another human being. I mean, I know I threatened you but…I would never….could never….oh god," Mickey stood up and began to pace, "Oh god, oh god, oh god, I killed him. I killed a man. He's dead because of me! Oh god, oh my god. This is just like what happened at the James Bond reenactment concert of 1996 except I wasn't the one in the bikini!"

Much to Shawn's annoyance, the man began to cry. Long, wailing sobs echoed throughout the warehouse as Mickey paced back and forth, trying to stop the flow of tears with the hem of his shirt.

Needless to say, Shawn felt very awkward tied up as he was and unable to do anything to shut him up.

"Hey…hey, Mickey? Mickey! Yo! Mick! Get a hold of yourself, man!" Mickey pulled his hands away from his face and looked at him. "Listen, I...I know what it feels like, okay? I mean, obviously not the whole killing thing but…I know what it feels like to disappoint your father. He spends years and years trying to build you up to be the perfect son but you don't want to be the perfect son, at least not by his standards. But one day you decide to just try, for once. You do everything to make him happy; you work hard, you get yourself together and then…everything goes disastrously wrong," Shawn sighed, his own tangled thoughts not on the man before him but his own dad, "and it's like it was all for nothing. You might as well be the same disappointment of a son." _Oh god, don't cry Shawn, you can't do that. Be like Scarface in a Coke factory – blank.  
_ But Mickey was looking at him with a new kind of light. He smiled a small, timid smile. "I just have one question," Shawn said, moving uncomfortably against his bindings.

"What is it?"

"What is up with this agony art thing? Before I die or….not die, I'm not sure what you plan on doing with me, I'd really like to know what this all is. I'm sorry, but your brother's paintings look like a cat peed all over an easel and then covered it in paint." Mickey laughed shyly and walked over to one of the large crates. He climbed a stepladder and, much to Shawn's surprise, retrieved a blank sheet of paper, a brand new easel, and a couple of paint splattered paint cans. "Well, I've never explained it to anybody before, I barely understood it myself, but I think it goes something like this," he ran over and removed the constricting belts from Shawn's aching body. Suddenly happy as a puppy, he placed a jar of paint in Shawn's hand and pushed him towards the easel. "It's like this: what do you feel right now?"

"Uh…baffled?" Shawn said, baffled, as he stood awkwardly in the center of the room with paint dripping down his fingers. _This man's sudden mood change is a bit disturbing_, Shawn thought uncomfortably.

"No, come on, seriously. How do you feel?"

Shawn blew a stream of air out of his lips. By this time either Juliet or Gus or even Lassie should've made a magical appearance and busted him out of this joint. What was the hold up? "All right, angry. I feel angry. And a little bit hungry. Some chips would be nice."

"All right, show me." Mickey put a hand to his chin and smiled at him mischievously.

"What, chips? You're the one-"

"No, no show me what you would do with that paint and easel since you're so angry."

Shawn looked at him in surprise and then back at the easel. It looked so damn innocent just sitting there with a blank sheet of paper and wooden legs. _This crazy Cakester wants anger_, _I'll show him anger_. So he did the only thing that seemed plausible at the moment.

He took the whole can of paint and threw it at the easel.

Blue globs of gooey, messy goodness exploded everywhere. Paint splattered the walls, the ceiling and even Mickey's hair but, as planned, the majority of it splattered all over the clean white paper, creating a ghostly butterfly silhouette. Panting, Shawn looked at Mickey defensively only to find him smiling and clapping his hands. "Yes, you've got it!" he ran behind a crate and came back with another can of paint, red this time, "It's just like that. Agony art has no real detail or pre-planning. In fact, there's no paint brushes involved. Just…whatever you're feeling, take a can of paint and show it. A person who's feeling sad will probably dip their hand in the paint and drag their hand randomly across the paper. A person feeling happy will probably throw the paint cans in the air, effectively only _sprinkling_ the canvas with paint and, as you can see, a person who's angry will probably just throw it at the easel. No rules except you can't paint something detailed and you have to make a mess. It's like finger painting but with more feeling. Go on, do it again."

"Oh…okay," as much as Shawn knew that he should be focusing on trying to escape or getting Mickey to surrender, he just had to throw _one_ more can of paint. He heaved it above his head, threw it…and began to laugh. Mickey, unable to resist, grabbed his own easel and paint can. The two men looked at each other, grin, and together they threw a paint can at their own separate easels.

[Enter song Bad Reputation by Joan Jett here. Play it on YouTube if you have to.]

The two men laughed and ducked as globs of orange and purple paint came raining down on them, drenching their clothes and coating their hair until it dripped in thick gobs onto their cheeks and down their necks. Their pallets, the floor, and even the ceiling had become a slippery slide of glinting liquid that squished and squeaked as they ran back and forth across the floor hitting their pallets at different angles until the pristine white paper had become a muddy, squishy pile of nitrocellulose lacquers. Soon, the two men turned their attention away from the disintegrating pile of paper to each other and an all-out paint-war began until panting, still laughing, they stood side by side, staring at what use to be a bland, wooden warehouse.

[End song]

"Agony art," Mickey sniffed and nodded at their work, "I think this one is called happiness art."

Shawn nodded and wiped paint from his brow, effectively creating a multi-colored rainbow across his forehead. "I think mine looks like a donkey on steroids and on stilts rolling down Grand Avenue on Big Wheels."

"I think that's actually Las Vegas during a power outage," Mickey chuckled turned to look at him with a smile that Shawn didn't like at all, "Come with me. Spencer."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Come with me. I'm running away, remember? I have a few dollars left over from my donation agency scheme. We can ask my sister for the rest of the money and you and I could be on a plane to Tajikistan by tomorrow morning!"

"Mickey, I -"

"Shawn, this is the most fun that I have ever had in my life, believe me! And about the whole disappointing-your-father-thing…I've never met anyone who actually understands what it feels like! No one will have to know. We can slip away like thieves in the night and when we get there you can teach me how to make my hair looks just like yours. Never before have I seen such a spectacular mane. Hope the paint comes out," he reached up and touched a lock of Shawn's hair with reverence.

"Mickey, I…I can't do that. My hair is one of a kind, it'll take a lifetime to train yours to be just…look, you killed a man, and even though I feel kinda-sorta sorry for you, you have to turn yourself in." Mickey froze.

"Shawn…are you sure? We can be like brothers, man. We can start all over without having to worry about living up to someone's expectations ever again."

"Look, no matter how much of a drill sergeant my dad might be I would never leave the country just because I'm scared of his expectations. If you leave then sooner or later you'll start to regret not paying up to what you've done. Just…just come on, Mickey. You'll feel better."

Mickey's lip trembled. _Not the tears again_, Shawn thought in exasperation, but Mickey's face cleared up and he marched away with a resolved look on his face. "Mickey, buddy?" Still frowning, he returned with something hidden behind his back.

"I'm terribly sorry, Shawn."

"I know you are. Come on. Let's get you to the SBPD."

"I never imagined myself killing someone deliberately. I mean, we all think about doing it from time to time. But deliberately, no, not at all."

"Of…course. Hey, why don't you just take a few steps back, buddy?" Mickey shook his head and brought out a solid lead pipe from behind his back.

"But you leave me no choice." He raised the pipe above his head, intending to bring it down full force upon Shawn's spectacular mane. But Shawn wasn't even looking at him.

"Lassiter, wait, don't do it!"

_Bang_.

And the lead pipe went skidding across the floor.

oOoOoOo

Gus: What in the heck just happened?

Me: Hee hee hee, someone just got shot.

Gus: You said you wouldn't do that! Man, you are one sick lady.

Me: I know….I know. Author's note: If you saw the name Swope mysteriously pop up in any one of the earlier chapters it was just my mistake. Jonathan Harris went through many name changes, Swope being one of them

Gus: No, seriously. What just happened? Why did Lassiter just suddenly appear out of nowhere?

Me: You'll see next chapter.


	6. Loyalty

_...Mickey's lip trembled. _Not the tears again_, Shawn thought in exasperation, but Mickey's face cleared up and he marched away with a resolved look on his face. "Mickey, buddy?" Still frowning, he returned with something hidden behind his back. _

"_I'm terribly sorry, Shawn."_

"_I know you are. Come on. Let's get you to the SBPD."_

"_I never imagined myself killing someone deliberately. I mean, we all think about doing it from time to time. But deliberately, no, not at all."_

"_Of…course. Hey, why don't you just take a few steps back, buddy?" Mickey shook his head and brought out a solid lead pipe from behind his back._

"_But you leave me no choice." He raised the pipe above his head, intending to bring it down full force upon Shawn's spectacular mane. But Shawn wasn't even looking at him._

"_Lassiter, wait, don't do it!"_

_Bang._

_And the lead pipe went skidding across the floor._

xXxXx

"Mickey! Mickey! Speak to me, buddy."

Mickey moaned in response. Wincing, he rolled onto his side and felt tentatively at his upper arm which, much to Shawn's relief, wasn't drenched in blood or mangled terribly. He looked up at Lassiter with annoyance.

"Man, you didn't have to _shoot_ at him!"

"Spencer, if I hadn't he would have busted your head open! The shot was just to scare him a little, make him disoriented. Plus it didn't even hit him!"

"You could've…you know, yelled 'freeze' or '_caliente_' or 'drop it' or something!"

"All right! All right!" Lassie raised his hands in defeat, "next time I'll give the crazy maniac killer ten more seconds to smash your head open, happy?" Shawn sucked his teeth.

"Shawn! Shawn, are you all right?!" The sound of quick footsteps could be heard approaching and Juliet appeared, quite breathless, with her gun drawn. Following close on her heels was a panicked looking Gus, and…Henry Spencer. "Dad!?"

"I came as soon as I heard the news. Step…step away from him, son. Come here. You hurt?"

Still quite disoriented at having the whole team (or rather…a bunch of people) show up to his rescue so suddenly, Shawn Spencer stumbled towards his father and accepted the spare shirt handed to him. He began to wipe the gooey nonsense off of his face as he watched Lassiter pull out a pair of handcuffs.

"Mickey Harris, you're under arrest for the murder of Rich…" Lassiter paused and looked at his hand, which was smeared with paint from Mickey's shirt, "...chard Kusnick. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can and will be held against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand these rights?" But Mickey wasn't even listening to Lassiter. He had eyes only for Shawn. Then, slowly, he straightened up and his gaze traveled over to where Henry was standing.

"Is this him," he asked quietly, "Is this the man who's been holding you down for all of these years," his voice turned shrill and high-pitched as Lassiter dragged him away, repeatedly asking him in gruff tones whether or not he understood his rights, goddamnit, "Your son could have been great if he wasn't so busy trying to please _you_. Think of who he could've been if he didn't have to focus on you every second telling him to be the perfect son. Shawn, Shawn! Wait, we still have a chance. I'm sorry! Tell them everything that you told me! Prove my innocence! Shawn! It's not too late for us! Ditch the father-"

But the rest of his fervent cries faded away into unintelligible noise as he was dragged out of the warehouse by a cursing Lassiter and Juliet, leaving Shawn, Gus, and Henry standing in an awkward silence.

"Shawn, why are you covered in paint?" Gus asked

"I think the better question to ask right now is…did you really say that I was that terrible of a father?"

"You are a bit of a drill-sergeant."

"Shut it, Guster,"

"*lip smack*"

"That's not the point. How did you guys find me?" Shawn noticed his father giving Gus a very strange look. "What? What? Did Gus suddenly develop physic super abilities, too? Aw, come on, man! There can only be one physic at a time. We agreed that –"

"Actually, Shawn, Gus showed you some true loyalty a few hours ag-"

"What he means to say is…we had a pretty good hunch on where you were."

Shawn looked between his father and Gus, confused. Both men looked as if they were having a furious telepathic battle complete with telepathic hand gestures and curse words in little speech bubbles. Finally Henry Spencer swatted Gus away and threw an arm around Shawn's shoulders. "It went something like this, son…" and as the three men walked out of the darkness of the damp, moldy warehouse and into the sunlight, Henry Spencer began to tell his story (which, I am now informed, was actually Gus's story.)

About three hours earlier, in the SBPD

"_Immediately after Mickey drove away with you in the back of his car Tsia ran inside to call the police. But I knew we couldn't wait around for them to arrive, so we called ahead at the SBPD and arrived there shortly after_."

"Gus, what is it?! Where's Shawn? We got your message but it was all jumbled and confusing."

"Juliet, Shawn's been kidnapped and we need to find out where Mickey's taken him."

"Mickey?"

"Long story,"

"Mickey's my brother," Tsia said, stepping forward with a sense of urgency.

"You didn't tell us you had a second brother…where would he have taken Shawn and why?"

"I…" Tsia faltered and looked away, a crimson blush spreading over her pretty cheeks, "I don't know. He…he came over asking me for money but…he refused to tell me anything else."

Juliet and Gus looked at her suspiciously. _("I, for one, remembered that whenever she was lying she would start stuttering and twitching her right eye." "Get on with the story, Guster."_) But before they could investigate further into the sudden sketchiness of the whole ordeal there was a sudden clatter and Lassiter ran over, his eyes fixed hungrily on Gus's face. Gus, understandably, suddenly felt quite afraid. "Lassiter, Shawn's been kidnapped again."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, that's all good and pretty, O'Hara. Guster, is that a model of Joseph Chamberlain's very own monocle? Perfect orbital shape, pristine black glint, maximum comfort," Lassie gently lifted the monocle from Gus's face (he had forgotten to take it off) and placed it upon his own eye, looking very smart and handsome. "Burton Guster, I have never respected you more than I do now…seriously, I've never respected you at all."

"Carlton! Shawn was kidnapped!"

"What?" Lassiter blinked at O'Hara in confusion, "Oh, right, right, right. We should probably look into that. Though if you ask me," he said, pocketing the monocle. Tsia jumped and was about to say something but Gus shook his head and she stepped back, looking sour, "he'll probably turn up in a week or two not knowing his own name and even more penniless than he is now."

"_Lassiter!_"

"All right, what do we know?"

"All we know is that Shawn was last seen being driven away by Tsia's brother to an unknown location."

"Brother," Lassiter turned to Tsia curiously, "I thought your brother was dead, not to be insensitive."

"Long story. This is a different brother. Are you _sure_ you don't know where Mickey would have taken Shawn?" This time Juliet turned to look at her. She flushed again under such pressure and began to wring her hands. "No," she said firmly.

"Tsia…" But right at that moment yet another person busted in, this one still with a fishing cap on his head and a tangled fishing rod in his hand.

"Mr. Spencer!"

"Where is he? Where's my son?"

"We're trying to figure that out now. How'd you know he was missing?"

"Gus texted me," Henry paused, panting, and looked at Lassiter. "Why are you wearing a monocle?" Shame-faced, Lassie quickly slipped the eyepiece back into his pocket. But Gus hadn't heard any of this. He was staring at Tsia with an unreadable expression. "Can I speak to you…in private, please?"

Nodding worriedly and still wringing her petite hands she followed Gus into an empty conference room. She sat down and fixed him with a pitying stare. "I'm so sorry about your friend," she said delicately, her bottom lip poking out, "my brother, he's a wildcat. That's why we had to kick him out of the family."

"Cut the crap, Tsia. Where is he?"

"Excuse me," she squared her shoulders.

"Oh, I must have stuttered. Where is Shawn, Tsia?"

"_I…don't…know_!" Gus sent a quick, apologetic prayer to the Good Lord above.

"Listen, I never yell at women, ever, but you're obviously not getting the point. Shawn is my best friend; he's like a brother to me and right now he could be out there bleeding to death for all we know. Think of the years that you were separated from Mickey. Think of those first few nights not knowing where he was or whether or not he was all right. Think of all those scenarios that ran through your head when you lay down to bed at night: how he could be cold and hungry or lying, scared, beneath a garbage can. That's how I feel right now, Ms. Harris, and your my only ticket to knowing whether or not any of the scenarios that are running through my head right now are true and, trust me, they're getting nastier and nastier by the second. Now I'm begging you, tell me where Mickey would have taken Shawn. I think it's about time that I got the only human being that I have ever shared a bathtub with back." Tsia sighed, and looked away.

"You're right," she said after a minute of silence, tears beading on her fake eyelashes "You're exactly right, Guster. I know what it feels like to…to worry about someone you love. Not knowing whether or not…there's a warehouse that my father use to own a few miles from my house. If anywhere, you'll find him there."

Gus nodded and stood up. "Thank you."

"Oh, and one more thing…I'm …really sorry."

For the world of him, he didn't know what to say. With once last glance in her direction, he turned the door knob and exited the room, only to find everybody in the whole building staring at him. Even the convicts down in the cells had ceased their cursing and muttering to turn and look and him.

"What?" he screeched, like a hawk.

"You…took a bath with Shawn?" Juliet said in surprise with her arms crossed.

"I-no! No! I meant when we were babies! When we were kids! You know what, it doesn't even matter. Tsia's told me where Mickey might be holding Shawn!"

"Well what are we waiting for? McNab, send us the address over GPS. Let's go, people!"

Now, back to the present time

"…so we headed over and got here right before Harris was about to smash you over the head. If Lassiter hadn't taken that shot you probably would be dead by now, kid."

"Yeah…" Shawn said, gazing distractedly at the horizon.

"So what was up with Mickey, anyway? What was the dude's problem?"

"He was just tryinta uphold his brother's legacy…or something. God, I feel bad for the guy. I should probably testify in court."

"Hm. Wonder what's going to happen to all of these terribly ugly paintings," Gus said, looking back at the warehouse. Shawn smiled. "Oh, I know the perfected place for them." And he began to walk away. Gus threw a glance at Henry, who shrugged and began to get into his car.

"Shawn! Wait - Shawn!" Gus called, speed walking after him, "You can't just end on a suspicious note and walk away into the sunset! What's happening with the paintings? And…where are my keys! Where are my keys, Shawn? I don't care if another man was threatening to kill you, that does _not_ give you permission to misplace another man's keys! Shawn! Come back here! Shawn!"

vVvVv

Author's note: Phew. Another one down. Whaddaya think? Hm? I don't think Lassiter's ever going to give that monocle back XD Don't leave yet! One more chapter to go and then we're done. Thanks for reading!


	7. In Which We Say Good Riddance to Art

"I don't know, man…it's growing on me."

"Yeah…me too, I guess…"

"I guess if you…turn your head a little to the right…"

"Uh-huh…"

"It looks a little bit like a giant fi-"

"-mollusk –"

"…all right, I was going to say fish but, you know, I _have_ heard it both ways…"

"Shawn…"

"Hey guys. Oh! You got one of Harris's paintings for the office, I see."

"Jules, I simply could not bear to see such a beautiful work of art go to waste."

"This coming from the man who used a postcard with the picture of the Mona Lisa on it as tissue paper,"

"Gus, a little finesse is all I'm asking for. Just a little bit."

Jules pursed her lips and nodded patiently then turned her eyes to the painting. It wasn't that bad, really; they had done a good job with the placement. It had been mounted above the side table in the reception room and, well, if you squinted your eyes and tilted your head slightly to the left it did look quite nice. Now all they had to do was pray that the rest of their clients would walk in squinting with their head tilted to the left. "I think it looks like a mollusk," she said decidedly. Gus flashed Shawn one of his Highly Annoying Looks. "Wonder what he was feeling when he painted this one."

They stared at the painting in silence, seemingly transfixed to its melancholy hues. What with the aimless, wayside twists and turns of the amateur strokes, the depressing colors, and the absence of any lust or appreciation from the artist, there was only one thing that this painting truly conveyed: sadness. Jules, creeped out by the sudden silence, roused herself from her quickly darkening thoughts and turned to Shawn. "Actually, I had been looking into Mickey's case back at the station and I came over to tell you that…Shawn, it isn't looking good for him."

"What, you mean as in Michael Berryman not looking good or…"

"He may be facing a life sentence, Shawn."

There was a pause in which Shawn tore his eyes away from the painting and looked at Jules in surprise. "But what he did only counts as second degree murder," Gus said hurriedly, "What about the Federal Sentencing Guidelines?"

"If he's lucky he'll be looking at 15 years in prison but…I'm just stating a possibility. I'm really sorry, Shawn."

[At this time, the author would like to note that the expression on Shawn's face can be compared to that of a dog who has just realized that he'll never find out, "who's a good boy?"]

Shawn sat down on the client's couch and hugged a pillow to his chest, gazing distractedly at nothing. "Man," he said, "15 years to life? That's…a lot."

_That's an understatement_, Gus was tempted to say. But instead he put on his Sad Face and looked away.

"You can still visit him, Shawn." Jules said, coming over and sitting next to him on the couch.

"I know. But, it's like what if Gus went to prison for 15 years? Or you went to prison for life….although that would be hot….really hot…Jules, go commit a felony."

"I'm not going to commit a felony, Shawn."

"What I don't understand is…why do you feel bad for a guy who tried to kill you?"

"I dunno," Shawn said with a sigh, "it's just that, for a moment, in the warehouse, it felt like we actually connected. He seemed like a brother to me. And now that brother's going to jail."

Jules nodded sympathetically. She couldn't imagine what it would feel like if her big brother ever ended up going to jail. "I wonder what's going to happen to all of Harris's art."

"Oh, I took care of that." Shawn said, waving his hand dismissively. Jules and Gus immediately became suspicious.

"What do you mean?" Jules asked warily. In response, Shawn got up and pressed a button on the office phone. Immediately, the sound of Woodrow's excited voice resounded through the room. "_Hey, Shawnie-boy! Thanks for the paintings! My wife loves it! In fact, she loved them so much that she tried to take them all down and torch them. But do not fear, my friend, I nailed them all down to the wall and glued the corners down with a $64 super glue. Mmm. She'll never get them off. Not even the one that I nailed to the bathroom window. Now what did you say that guy called them again? Agony art? Listen: I think I'm going to start my own line. It's going to be called Agony Art 2.0! Gotta say, it's kind of messy to produce. Oh well. Woodrow out."_

"Woody wanted all of the paintings?!" Gus asked in surprise.

"Asked me if I had anymore when I brought him the first one."

"Shawn, now Harris wouldn't have died in vain! His paintings are actually being appreciated! Have you told Mickey?" Jules asked excitedly.

"His birthday's in a few weeks. Figure I'd make him wait. Oh, and guys?"

"What?"

"I really hate art."

[Insert theme music and credits here]

Thanks for reading!


End file.
